Guilt
by Sinkme
Summary: "When I got shot, my best friend was there for me. Yours wasn't. My best friend caught the shooter. Yours didn't." An exploration of what drove Marshall to continuously confront Lala. Tag to 3.1 Father Goes West. T for slight language.


Guilt.

It was eating him alive.

The only thing that made him feel anything anymore was tormenting Lala. It was only then he allowed himself to fall back into his familiar role, fixed a too wide smile on his face and let the random facts come spurting out like normal.

He _knew _that Lala knew what had happened that night. Mary was recovering, slowly but surely, and he owed it to her to catch her shooter. Like she had done for him.

There- he could feel the guilt again, pulling him down...

Focus.

He had to be on top of his game when he visited Lala. After his repeat visits he'd been promoted from nuisance to liability, which was exactly what he wanted. He needed Lala irritated enough to tell him when he needed to know. He needed him angry enough to slip up. And if that came at the price of his safety, so be it.

Stan didn't need to know where he went everyday, although Marshall was sure his boss suspected it. He knew going without backup was foolish but he was past caring.

Mary was still in the hospital. He hadn't been there for her like she'd been there for him. She'd saved his life and where had he been when she'd needed him?

So he went back.

Again. And again. And again.

Nothing. He flashed a smile at Lala, "See ya later", and walked away slowly, senses alert for any threat. Not yet. His smile faltered. Nothing yet.

Mary was released from the hospital and he breathed a sigh of relief when her caustic comments were quick to come. He let himself pretend that nothing had changed. She certainly wasn't acting like she'd been shot just six weeks ago. She was back and pick up right where she'd left off.

Except he could see through her.

He could see it in the way she walked, spoke, moved. Guarded. Hunched over. Careful. She flinched, holding her abdomen, and a little bit of him died.

He walked over to her desk, her head still resting in her arms on her desk. "We can talk now, or we could talk later. But, a talk is a'coming," he said, sitting on her desk.

"I'm fine," she looked up at him. He stayed quiet, knowing she'd answer him. Knowing that she would be honest with him.

"Ok," she allowed. "When you got shot, you probably felt the same way, like you were stuck inside, like you couldn't move out of what happened."

He froze, the guilt pooling in his stomach again, icy and painful. He barely heard the next thing she said but when he saw her looking at him he managed to say aloud what he'd been thinking since he saw her being wheeled into surgery.

"No. None of that. Reason being; when I got shot, my best friend was there for me. Yours wasn't. My best friend caught the shooter. Yours didn't." He couldn't meet her eyes when she breathed his name.

She snapped at him a moment later, he knew she was trying to force him to focus on her rather than dwell on what he'd just admitted. "Hey, stop. It's me. It's my body being this mangled limping prison and my brain not being able to remember. I mean, I looked right at him. I can see the gun, gold earring, green sweatshirt, his pointless little beard, I just can't see his face."

_Green sweatshirt?_

He seized on the seemingly insignificant fact in order to ignore for the moment the frightening picture Mary had painted of her psyche in the weeks after he shooting.

"You're sure it was green? Not turquoise or tourmaline?"

"No, fighting Irish green. Why?"

He was glad to hear the confidence in her voice, the absolute sureness that only Mary Shannon could get away with.

"I don't think anything, yet," he said dismissively. There was no way he was telling her about his suspicions right now.

He was thankful when Stan strong-armed Mary into going home, and used the opportunity to visit Lala again.

He fixed a smirk on his face as he strolled into the gangster's backyard clubhouse, checking again to ensure the scarf hadn't shifted from its carefully arranged position. It contrasted nicely with his black coat, immediately drawing everyone's eyes to it.

He was especially careful, keeping an eye on everyone around him as he walked towards Lala, casually loosening his scarf and pulling it into his hands.

"In case you're wondering, 100% cashmere. Not sure about the color. It's more your shade," he tossed it lightly onto Lala's shoulder as he sat down and the thug lunged at him.

_Finally._

He grabbed Lala's arm and reversed the grip, forcing the arm into a simple hold and pulling a bit to get the gangster off balance. "Easy Lala," he said quietly. He was finally there and it was a critical moment. He can't blow it by getting tackled or shot. He'd finally pushed Lala over the threshold and it was a balancing act now; keeping him infuriated enough to lash out, without provoking a potentially fatal situation.

He forced Lala's hand back slightly, a silent reminder that Lala was at his mercy. His underlings were shuffling behind him and he knew at least one of them would be reaching for a gun. So he threw his coat over his hip, allowing him clear access to his own gun.

"I'm a US Marshal, so step off. Or this goes to a place you can't get back from," he said confidently but not overly threatening.

He knew he was ridiculously outnumbered and they could easily overpower him but he's so close. His show of power worked because the tension eased and everyone stepped back, obedient but by no means content. He released Lala and the man immediately threw his scarf back at him.

He left his hand on his gun and threw out his observations while Lala was quiet: he knew about the rival gang and their color; knew Mary shot the bastard who shot her; knew the man couldn't have been there unless Lala had given him permission.

He wanted his answer but he knew without a doubt that he'd overstayed his welcome. One look around makes it clear that he'd pushed too much for today. And he couldn't get the truth if he was dead. He could feel the hate rolling off Lala and his crew as he left, carefully keeping an eye on everyone as he walked by them, never turning his back fully.

_Next time._ He swore to himself that next time he'd get his answer.

He caught up with Mary, knowing by now that she'd noticed his disappearances, and tossed out, "Just forwarded you some information about gang rivalry."

Mary would connect the dots and he'd be able to watch her back this time when she confronted a gangster. He was confident that he'd worked Lala over enough that he'll talk to Mary just to get rid of him.

They approached Lala's den slowly, neither in any rush, and he flashed his badge to a nearby car, smiling, "Lala and I are really good friends. We talk every day."

He was enjoying himself, he knew it would be over soon and Mary would finally have her justice. A small part of him hopes that maybe, just maybe, the knot in his stomach will finally ease.

"I don't think you two have ever been formally introduced. Inspector Shepherd, Lala." He didn't have to be annoying or funny now for Lala's benefit; Mary was being herself enough to keep the gangster from getting to comfortable.

"Inspector Shepard thinks it's Tito. But I think it's Carmello, he's a lieutenant and he's been trying to broker peace for months. Not because he's a great guy, but war's expensive, business is business, you get that. So Carmello and his crew are given a free pass onto your territory that night to talk peace. It's going fine, then it starts to jump off with your guys and Inspector Shepherd. Carmello doesn't know what's going on, he pulls his gun, and..."

Mary picked up right where he left off, "Here's the deal. If it's Carmello, we're gonna find him. If it's somebody else, we'll find him. It's what we do. But my stomach hurts and my back aches, and if I have to door knock half of Albuquerque to find the dumbass who shot me, I'll do it. But I won't forget it. So maybe when I catch the guy I tell him and all his Viper buddies, 'hey, Lala bitched out and gave you up. Go start a war. With Lala.' Tell us who it was, your name never comes up."

He smirked, knowing that she had Lala trapped; there was no reason for Lala to stay quiet anymore. His business had taken an awful plunge ever since Marshall had started visiting. His crew was beginning to doubt him as a leader because he couldn't deal with the Marshal, and now his cooperation ensured him a way to save face and take care of his problems.

"One condition," Lala spat. "I never wanna see him again." Marshall smiled and shrugged at Lala's glare. He couldn't care less. They had confirmation. Mary would get her vengeance.

When they tracked Carmello down he let Mary take point when they caught sight of the gangster running.

"I got this," she yelled. Marshall wasn't worried; Carmello wasn't armed, the guy could barely run.

"Got what? He's gonna fall down in a second," he said calmly. "This is like a trailer for the movie 'Geriatric Marshal'."

He was slowly getting back to how he used to be. It was becoming less of a chore to let himself breathe and let go. The Marshals took Carmello in and then it was just him and Mary in the car driving back to the office.

"You didn't have to do that," Mary said suddenly.

He knew what she was talking about but she continued angrily, "Lala and his gang could have killed you and from what I heard you gave them too many opportunities to shoot your pathetic ass. Did you take backup even once?"

He took a moment to consider his answer and finally replied, "I did have to do it. You're my partner. If I don't look out for you, who will?"

Whatever she heard in what he'd left unsaid must have been enough because she only rolled her eyes and smiled, "Whatever, doofus."

He smiled back and felt the tension in his gut ease a little.


End file.
